Read Online Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome by Stephen Lawhead - Free Book Online Page B

greater show of Rohee's death than Rohee himself would have. Yes, I see.”
    “For the price of a day's food and drink, the populace will see him as Cynetics incarnate.”
    Cejka sighed heavily. “I am afraid you are right. And we—we support the illusion by seeing to it that our whole Hage turns out to glorify dead Rohee—a man who was barely worth his night soil all his life long.”
    “It is strange.”
    “More than strange, Covol. We will see a frightening thing today. We will see a man make himself a god. There will be no stopping him now.”
    “Yet, he must be stopped,” said Covol, wanting to believe that it was possible. “We will find a way.”
    Cejka looked at him sadly and then turned his eyes back to the river, saying, “Kyan will run red with the blood of our Hagemen before Jamrog will be stopped. Enjoy the funeral today, Covol. It is our own.”
    “An artist must be pure of heart,” said Gerdes, “for true art is the expression of the artist's innermost being. To create beauty, one must be beautiful”—she pressed her hands to her bosom—“in here, in your heart of hearts.”
    Yarden listened intently. They were meeting in Gerdes' home which was, like most Fieri homes, an exercise in studied simplicity: spacious and comfortable, open to the sun and air. The room in which they sat facing one another across a low table of polished wood opened onto a meticulously tended garden. Fine paintings hung on the walls, delicate, expressive, gentle shadings of light and color, giving the room warmth for all its airiness.
    Ianni, as promised, had brought Yarden to meet Gerdes, and once the conversation had begun, excused herself so the two could talk alone. Gerdes did most of the talking, and Yarden thrilled to be in the older woman's presence, because Gerdes, teacher of dance, was unlike anyone Yarden had ever met, and certainly unlike anyone she would have imagined as a dancer: thickset and short-limbed, with short, grizzled, gray hair and a ruddy face, small rosebud lips that turned down at the edges in a frown of motherly disapproval, frank hazel eyes that fairly sparkled with enthusiasm and intelligence. Her manner was gruff, but her tone patient and caring.
    But it was not her appearance or her manner that Yarden found so fascinating—it was the extraordinary things she said. Yarden had never heard such words, such ideas. Gerdes talked about art, about creating beauty, and the way she spoke was beautiful too. Yarden glimpsed possibilities of expression she had never known existed; whole worlds of wonder opened up to her as the woman spoke. She saw herself poised for a plunge into a shimmering sea of promise. How she would emerge, she could not say, but she would be changed and the change would be wonderful.
    “I understand,” said Yarden softly.
    Gerdes looked at her closely. “Do you? Do you really understand? It is not easy to be pure. It is hard work. The hardest. The discipline required of an artist is enormous. Many people—most, it seems—simply do not have such discipline, such single-mindedness of purpose and patience. It takes years to develop a craft; years of painstaking, difficult work. The discipline is beyond all but the most dedicated.”
    “What about talent?” asked Yarden. “Doesn't that count for something?”
    “Oh yes, talent is good. Talent is commendable, for it makes the discipline easier to endure, and the dedication comes more naturally. But talent alone isn't the answer. Talent is raw; it is a beast, wild and untamed. Talent must be mastered; it must be trained so that it can be used with wisdom and purpose. It must be pruned like a tree so it will bear only the best fruit.” Gerdes paused to shake her head slowly as she paced before Yarden. “No, talent without discipline is only an empty promise—the glitter of an unworked crystal. It is nothing of itself.”
    Gerdes returned to her chair opposite Yarden. She sat down and leaned back, placing her hands on the